


we built this up to pull it down

by LogicalBookThief



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 02 Spoilers, basically it's pretty much canon at this point like have you seen the finale?, more feelings than you can shake a crucifix at, they're in love so jot that down, watch that and then come back and bask in these sad men and their love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-14 19:23:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13014504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicalBookThief/pseuds/LogicalBookThief
Summary: From the moment they lock eyes at St. Aquinas, Marcus knows that if he grows to love Tomas Ortega, it'll be only to lose him at a later date.Problem is, Marcus Keane hasn't ever been one to do his heart any favors.





	we built this up to pull it down

**Author's Note:**

> Would you believe I had most of this fic done before the finale and was gonna post before it aired, only to be prevented by academic exhaustion? 
> 
> Well now I'm glad I had to wait, because the themes of "Marcus loves Tomas so much but is just as desperately afraid of losing him" within this fic have only been intensified. I hope you enjoy.

_Now all the birds have fled, the hurt just leaves me scared_  
_Losing everything I’ve ever known_  
_It’s all become too much, maybe I’m not built for love_  
_If I knew that I could reach you, I would go_

_-"Atlantis" by Seafret_

_*_

_*_

_*_

_*_

Marcus has many regrets. Whether that is due to the nature of his work or the nature of his person is anyone's guess.

He regrets not drilling it harder into Tomas' head that under _no_ circumstance does any sane exorcist allow a demon entrance into the mind. It's a death sentence for everybody involved, and, recalling how ruined Mouse looked, bloody and raw-voiced as she writhed on monastery's bed, he beseeches Tomas to understand.

Unfortunately, Tomas seems a bit too much like her — like Marcus was — before experience taught them a lesson you need only learn once. And Marcus will be damned if he lets Tomas and his soft, sunlit eyes be another victim of that cruel teacher.

Naturally, they disagree: Tomas is drawn to the fire like a man begging to be burned. He wants to be close to the flame, as if doing so will bring him closer to Marcus and what he is, will prove his worth as an exorcist. Not all trials must be by fire, but well, he supposes he hasn't set the best example in _that_ regard.

Sometimes it's uncanny, the way Tomas looks up to him — as though he leaks God's Grace out of every pore, some chosen son of hope and misery. Marcus tries to keep that in consideration, tries to be the man Tomas needs him to be, constantly aware of the scars gained through his own crucibles.

But God help Marcus, he cannot always control his infernal temper, his silver tongue. He isn't accustomed to being responsible for anybody else _this_ long and it shows in the clumsy way he handles Tomas.

He is tired, beaten, and worried that by the time they reach Cindy, it will be too late.

And Tomas isn't making it any easier to swallow, sanctimonious little shite he is, acting as if he isn't fueling his own pyre, as if Marcus won't have to play the unwilling witness when it all ends in ash and dust.

"The last time I trusted a vision, it led me to you. Was that also a mistake?"

"It's starting to feel like that, yeah," Marcus spits, teeth bared for a fight. He regrets it immediately.

Tomas slackens, all the faith in his words — in _Marcus_ — abruptly drained away by shock, hurt, and worse,  _betrayal_. In the absence of confidence, he looks woefully young, a boy who's lost his grandmother's hand in the crowd.

Marcus works his throat around an apology that never comes. He's never been good at taking back his words and damn if he's nothing if not consistent. The double-edged sword of cowardice is that he can't bear to see the pain he's caused, so he averts his gaze and instead thinks of Mouse, gagged by bile, and he remembers his relief at the silence it brought, because then the demon could no longer warp its heinous words through her mouth.

His resolve to protect Tomas from her fate tightens like the rope around his wrists. In the silence that strains the air, Marcus swears he won't let it come to that. Not again.

*

*

*

*

Later, after they've won — according to _Tomas_ , anyway — Marcus won't permit himself the slightest gratification. It puts them at odds, and part of it _is_ pettiness, drawn from the deep-seeded fears of being useless that the demon uprooted from where they were buried in his psyche.

Partly he means very deliberately to take the piss from Tomas, who won't receive any pats on the back for this stunt — and surely, only a blind man could miss how Tomas craves the praise, basks in it like it's the first rain of a long drought. Nevertheless, Marcus _can't_ give in, not with so much at stake, not when he's made his stance clear as day. He gets points for effort, points for an unwavering supply of compassion, like always, but none of that makes up for being a daily detriment to Marcus' peace of mind.

It's his own fault, Marcus concedes. And to be honest, a lot of his anger is directed at his own actions — not now, but six months ago, or earlier than that.

(Marcus can't swallow back his words, not when they often contain a grain of truth, even if harsh and misguided).

From the moment they lock eyes at St. Aquinas, Marcus knows that if he grows to love Tomas Ortega, it'll be only to lose him at a later date.

Problem is, Marcus Keane hasn't ever been known to do his heart any favors.

*

*

*

*

_As a lad, Marcus had yearned for a pet, some scrappy mutt plucked off the street to keep him company in the evenings while his dad drank and his ma fretted. His wishes culminated in a furtive attempt to sneak a stray cat into his room, tucked into the folds of his coat. It was a small, ratty-looking thing with warm paws and golden eyes. With a gray coat the color of dust-mites, Marcus hoped his parents would think it part of the filth that clung to their ramshackle house like flies to shit._

_Of course, a lad's sneakiness is relative to his own perception, and inevitably his mum caught him slipped bits of food into his pocket. Then she had a fit._

_"Can barely feed ourselves, let alone a bloody cat," she grumbled. And his da, hazy-eyed from drink, was pliant in agreement. Marcus suspected it might end like this and he wouldn't have quibbled at all, had his mother simply chuckled the poor thing back onto the streets._

_"You had it drowned!" he cried, near hysterics. It was unbecoming for a boy, even a boy so young, his father mumbled  — what a fat load of crap that was, coming from a man who blubbered regularly, brought to tears by gin. "You monster!"_

_He expected a slap for that, but she'd only stared at him, a rare tenderness in her sunken eyes. She took him on a walk that afternoon, ambling aimlessly around the cold, cobblestone streets until she found what she wanted him to see. She led him to the mouth of a dank alley and pointed to where the smell of trash was rank. A pile of strays were sifting through the mess, adding their own scent of piss._

_There was this stripped tabby in particular, bald spots all over its body, fur matted where it wasn't. It's eye torn out, ear chipped at the fringe — it seemed to be on its last leg, and when Marcus took a step towards it, maybe to offer some bit of gentleness on its way to meet the maker, it hissed and slashed at his arm. The string was a distant concern for Marcus, too focused on the cat's visible ribs, its ugly face as it snarled at him in distrust. His mum shook her head and they left the cat to its misery._

_"It was a kindness, Markie," she explained quietly. There was an air of finality to it; she expected no more quarrels after this. "Not a pleasure, believe you me. But it was kinder to kill it, rather than let it suffer."_

_Solemnly, Marcus nodded. It was a lesson in responsibility, he understood. One he would never forget._

*

*

*

*

Tomas isn't a stray, not by any means; if anything he's a lamb, led astray by his own visions of God, goodness and grandeur. A sacrifice awaiting its moment of valor, while Marcus fears what will be the blade that cuts him down: his own hubris? His guileless nature? Or Marcus being too late to steer him from the sword's path?

He wonders if he ought to have spared him this transitory life, mucked with devils and drudgery. Of if, perhaps, who Marcus really wishes he could spare is himself. 

*

*

*

The instant, gut-churning reaction to seeing that hammer, shiny with the bright gloss of red, is atrocious.  _Tomas is dead_. She's bashed his head in with her hammer while Marcus was dilly-dallying and let him go alone, and now he's _gone_ , gone from him like he always knew he'd be — except not like _this,_ any way but this. It's worse, somehow, not being there, not being able to do a damn thing and not even _realizing—_

Grief rips through his chest, tearing through scar tissue to allow the room for the raw, gaping maul of a fresh wound; the sharp-toothed bite of loss sinks into his flesh, his soul, and suddenly he's a boy again, watching his father beat his mother, frozen to the spot, screaming until he can't feel his lungs.

He thinks of Tomas, brains dashed by the cruel edge of fate that brought them to this doorstep, and the dagger of grief slides deeper. Marcus stands on the cusp of total numbness in the minute it takes for his world to fall apart, _again_ , and he can only stare without sight at Lorraine Graham, her chest heaving, her eyes two incensed peaks of red.

Only Harper's cry, unleashed from her poor sore throat, saves him from total despair. His motive narrows down to _disarm the mother, don't let Harper see, disarm Lorraine and save the girl._

Pain is irrelevant as it zips up his arm, slashed by her tool, the same tool she used to _kill— his_   _partner—_

Disarm the mother, he breathes, nearly strangled by a sudden rush of rage, baying for blood like a rabid dog. He chains it down for Harper's sake, but this leaves him susceptible to this mother's crazed, single-minded determination to paradoxically rescue her daughter from her savior.

What sort of person, Marcus seethes, as he fights swipes of glass and fumbles with the shards of heart littered in the mess. What sort of person does this to their own _child_ , what sort of monster murders a man in cold blood, murders someone's dear—

Suddenly, it's over. There is a storm of police officers up the steps, barging into the room, one dragging him off Lorraine Graham, the other wrestling the glass out of her hands as she shrieks and kicks. Harper remains curled on her bed in terror, sobbing, and the social worker wades through the chaos like Moses parting the sea just to reach her, enveloping the girl in her arms and shielding her from the scene. All the better for it, because Marcus can't soothe her, not in this state, and through the dizziness he swerves, towards the door—

And there sits Tomas, awash in red, half his face hidden by a horrendous streak of blood; it is worthy of a hallelujah, grotesque as it is beautiful. Marcus parts his lips in a croak of unutterable relief. Like resetting a bone, his life clicks back into place at the sight of Tomas, who is there, who is alive, just within arm's reach.

"Get off me," he grunts, shrugging off the hands, ignoring the warnings flagged at his ear. An officer crouches beside Tomas, who's slid onto the floor, obviously in pain.

Marcus bites back a snarl as the woman attempts to inspect the wound, only for Tomas to recoil weakly. He bullies the officer out of his way and steadies him with a grip on his shoulder, squeezing gently, just to feel Tomas shift _tangibly_ under his touch.

 _"Tomas,"_ he sighs raggedly, and it's the most genuine of benedictions he's spoken in months. Wetness clings to his cheeks and he can't tell if it's tears or just sweat. "Hey. You with me, luv? Tomas?"

Bleary eyes crawl up to his face. "Are you...okay?" Tomas rasps, gazing at the blood as it leaks down Marcus' forearm. He cranes his neck, or tries, and moans pitifully. "Harper-?"

"Fine, everything's fine," Marcus mutters, and then he's laughing at the absurdity of such questions, coming from man who looks as though he's gone two rounds with the undertaker and received a thorough ass-kicking. He looks truly frightful, skin the ashen shade of a corpse, so sickly Marcus can't help but keep a hand on him, searching for the pulse that throbs at the nape of his neck.

Tomas frowns, though even that small movement causes him undue agony. Marcus cradles an unshaven cheek with his palm, caressing his thumb over the clean side of his temple, so blessedly intact.

"You're fine," he whispers, and repeats it over again, like he can will it so. Tomas hums, ostensibly to assure him that _yes, he'll live_. He will live, and Marcus can't hide his gratitude, pressing a kiss into dark curls that are speckled with red. For once, the hint of blood at his lips is sweet, not bitter.

*

*

*

*

In the aftermath, Marcus frets terribly, pestering the doctors with questions that Tomas, preoccupied with guilt, cannot be bothered to ask. This should be the opportunity to shame him into submission on this demon business once and for all. Marcus could gloat 'till he's run out of voice, a feat never before achieved, and he doubts Tomas would complain. Probably would believe he deserves every minute, while he endures a headache that'd make a saint wince. 

Were it anyone else, Marcus wouldn't hesitate. If it were during Casey's exorcism, he'd ream Tomas worse than he had over the compromising position he'd found him in at the Rance house. Now the most he can manage is the tease with the snacks, if it can even be called that, since his goal was for Tomas to buck up. Frankly, it's disconcerting how quickly Marcus melts at the sight of his half-smile, weary 'round the edges and bursting with blame. 

If Tomas is a trial — and on the darkest of nights, Marcus suspects he is — he cannot decide if he's succeeded or failed. The jury will reach a verdict eventually, he supposes. If it is a question of forgiveness, then the answer is already evident. He'd forgive Tomas a thousand times over, if it saved man's his smile. 

*

*

*

*

_They're holed up in a shitty motel somewhere in North Dakota, where it's dreadful cold outside but warm as fuck in their room. They barricade themselves in the cozy, mothball scented double-bed to wait out the blizzard. Cheap whiskey drips down their throats, slips off their chins. This is something too private to share at a bar, a ritual not for prying eyes; they pass the bottle between them like communion, chatting in hushed, guttural verses, even though they are alone._

_Heat bleeds into Marcus with the fervor of an embrace, pools in his gut, rises up his throat. He watches Tomas, the golden glint of his eyes reflecting off the bottle as he laughs, and Marcus thinks of what it must be to kiss those damp, parted lips. In that moment, he thinks maybe Tomas would let him do it, too. What stops him is that he's afraid he won't be able to **stop** , once he starts. He'll die with Tomas' breath held in his greedy lungs, and in times such as these it's difficult to remember that he's pledged his life to God and nobody else. _

_"If you could choose to forget someone, anyone in your life, would you?"  Marcus ponders. In the hours they've sat on this bed, tucked too close yet not close enough, they've talked about everything and nothing at all. Already he's halfway to oblivion, so it's a miracle his words aren't slurred beyond comprehension._

_It isn't a notion he meant to share aloud, though now that it's out, he craves an answer._

_Tomas lags behind in the drunk department, usually not one to overindulge; it's one area of his education where Marcus has been remiss. At least he's rather tipsy, judging by the way his cheek keeps listing onto Marcus' shoulder. Tomas contemplates_ _the question with a seriousness that isn't warranted and surely it's a sign of divine strength that Marcus doesn't smooth out the taut line of that mouth with his tongue._

_"No," he says at last._

_Marcus barks a laugh. "No?" he scoffs. "C'mon, Father, I can't believe that. Nobody ever caused you pain?"_

_"Of course," Tomas bristles. And Marcus is soberly reminded that for as much of an open book Tomas is, there are things that remain unsaid. Marcus carries the weight of his past with the bowstring shoulders of Atlas, yet Tomas bundles it with apparent indifference. Whatever truths are so deeply interred that Marcus doesn't think to ask how he felt being sent away to Mexico, if his parents are alive, if they exchange cards at Christmas._

_"But that pain is a part of me now," he whispers, and if Marcus wasn't so near, it would be too low to catch. "For better or worse, it's for me to bear."_

_Tomas speaks his reply with the conviction of a man who needs it to be true and Marcys won't begrudge him that —and yet. He ought to warn him, teach him, before it's too late. It is what he's here to do, after all. Not nurse heartaches and hangovers._

_"What about you?" asks Tomas, languidly. He's muffled by the sleeve of Marcus' shirt, which can't smell anything remotely like a rose, but he sighs with the comfort of one falling asleep._

_Marcus drowns his reply in the burn of liquor. Like a coward, he waits._

_And by the time he has found the words, a lie they may be, Tomas has drifted off._

*

*

*

*

  
_"Absolutely not."_

The relief at seeing Tomas, broken from his trance, evaporates swiftly. Of all people, it is  _Mouse_ who's brought him back to Marcus, and if her appearing out of the blue isn't an omen of what's to come— Marcus feels it in his bones, an ominous tick that's waiting, waiting for the storm. It doesn't arrive with the oven flying towards Tomas. It doesn't arrive when Andy's face twists in triumph around his da's voice.

No hail and no brimstone falls from the sky; the storm is a declaration of misguided reason.

_"The only way it's going to release its hold on Andy is if a better host comes along."_

_Bait_ , Tomas called himself. Like his life, his soul, is expendable — Marcus gnashes his teeth, fighting the urge to punch that damn resignation off his face and then lock him up somewhere safe, until this mess is fifty miles behind them. 

_"It'll destroy you."_

Marcus can read the answer in his body before Tomas speaks. There is guilt, bunched into line of his shoulders. There is exhaustion, stowed in the shadows beneath his eyes. And there is sadness lurking in the furrows of his brow, as he pleads for forgiveness for what he is about to do. Forgiveness, not permission.

_"My life belongs to God. It has always been in His hands."_

His faith, never so unwavering as it is now, crashes through Marcus like an earthquake. The demon has stilled, the stench of its anticipation ripe in the air, but it feels as though the ground beneath his feet has splintered. It's a quiet moment, no fanfare and all panic, when Marcus —who's dedicated himself in his entirety to God, trusted everything to Him — realizes there is one thing he can't entrust. One thing he has to preserve, no matter the cost. 

_"I don't want to lose you."_

_"Then bring me back,"_ says Tomas, bravely. Brave only because he trusts God, and what's more is he trusts _Marcus_ , and _damn_ that most of all.

 _"No. This is madness!"_ Mouse shouts, but it's a demand, a call to action. She stands in front of Marcus, a living example of what happens when you get too close to the fire — and here's Tomas, offering his soul on a silver platter. Them versus Tomas, it is the difference between experience and youth.

Except Tomas has witnessed a troop of nightmares he won't put words to, visions of death and decay strung up inside his head like streamers while the demon played host to its own little party. Marcus sees the desire carved into its putrid expression, and it takes a force of will to suppress his shudder, remembering when Cindy's voice stretched eerie and awful over the promise that haunts him to this day:  _"I'll have him."_   Tomas looks to Marcus like a martyr in the making, and still, Marcus tells Mouse to leave him be.

As if he has a choice. 

*

*

*

*

 _There's always a choice_. 

Marcus makes it a practice to avoid taking advice from demons, but in this one instance, the devil was right. In the end, everything is a choice. That is by God's design. 

Tomas chose to let the demon into his head. Tomas chose to make the ultimate sacrifice in order to save Andy. 

And when he couldn't bear to let that happen, Marcus chose to pull the trigger. 

He can't deny the relief that floods his heart, not when Tomas drags himself to his elbows and his frantic eyes are a rich hazel, rimmed only with the pink of distress. He looks to Andy, finally at rest, and his face crumples in horror. Watching him gape with grief sears with the samensting of a poker to the chest, but as he turns to Marcus, there is no blame or anger. There is a sorrow laden with sympathy, as if he knows the burden Marcus has taken upon his soul. Somehow, that's worse than blame, being so viscerally reminded of how good Tomas is, and why Marcus _had_ to save him.

Only a madman realizes he loves someone with every fiber of his being and then flees. And it isn't the depth of his love that scares him, no — although the demon wasn't wrong about the violence in Marcus, simmering just below the surface. Before he'd been able to channel it into his work, use it for God; now, without the Lord's guidance and his vulnerability so _obvious_ that any demon can poke and prod and exploit... All he knows is that Mouse can't use a compromised soldier and Tomas doesn't deserve an unworthy partner. 

Every choice has its consequences. Marcus pulled the trigger, so he has to go. And to do that he must endure the wretched goodbye that brings Tomas' pleads, his tears, his embrace. Marcus can't look at him when they part, can't imagine how that looks to Tomas, who's done nothing wrong except devote his faith to someone who is infuriatingly mortal. He shouldn't leave him with just a half-arsed promise of _see you again_. What he should do is tell Tomas the _truth —_ tell him that if Marcus had a chance to take it all back and forget they'd ever met, he _wouldn't_. 

Marcus holds many regrets in his heart.

Loving Tomas isn't one of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Review & kudos always appreciated down below! Also, my inbox over on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/logicalbookthief) is there if you want to shout into the void over this cliffhanger of a finale or discuss general feelings over these beautiful sacks of sad.


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